Heat Wave
by starhawk2005
Summary: It's hot, and Dean's being annoying. Sam takes matters into his own hands. Yes, literally.


**Heat Wave**

**Author: starhawk2005 **

**Summary: It's hot, and Dean's being annoying. Sam takes matters into his own hands. Literally.**

**Notes: Once again, my Muses surprise me. Here I was SO sure I'd never write Dean/Sam. *eyeroll***

It's got to be the heat. Worst heat wave the Southern U.S. has seen in decades, or so the _very_ well-endowed meteorologist chick on Channel 44 said this morning.

"Dude, what are we going to do? It's too freakin' _hot_ to hunt," Dean complains to Sam.

"We could take a break, you know," Sam answers, arming sweat off his forehead and taking a deep swig of beer from one of the two bottles left over from the night before. "There's no law that says we have to be on a job 24/7, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year."

"Yeah, but…" Dean gulps down half his own beer and tugs irritably at the damp material of his tee shirt. "I go too long without killing some evil sonofawhore, and I start to get antsy, Sam. _Tense_. I'll probably start climbing the walls any moment now."

Sam just rolls his eyes, tapping idly away on the laptop's keyboard. "Well, I don't even have any decent leads, anyways. Maybe when it gets this hot, even the evil things out there don't want to make trouble, either."

Dean snorts. "I doubt it. Ghosts don't have bodies, Sammy. They don't _get_ hot. Try again."

Sam glares at him irritably. "Bitch."

"Prick," Dean fires back, but he's too lethargic to put his usual vigour into it. "Damned heat," he complains again, after a long silence. He gets up and starts to pace, lumbering slowly back and forth. It's equal parts restlessness and heat-induced exhaustion.

"Then just go out and find yourself a girl," Sam advises. "Take the edge off _that_ way, for God's sake. Like that redhead at the diner last night, she was giving you the eye-"

"Not my type," Dean says dismissively, lazily seat-dropping himself back onto his chair. "Fake tits, collagen lips…the only thing on that girl that was part of her original packaging were those brown roots she was showing."

"Besides," Dean adds, "No way I'm going out in this heat. For a job, yes. Just for some tail, and lousy tail, at that? Hell, _no_."

Sam sighs loudly, chugging the last of his beer. "You have enough energy to whine, Dean, but not enough to actually get up and do _something_? Way to go."

"I don't exactly see you in a hurry to go out and kill something. Or screw someone. Or screw some_thing_," Dean points out.

"Prick," Sam huffs.

"Bitch," Dean returns, drinking the last of _his_ beer. This is going to get old real fast, but he's got no energy to do anything else. Fucking heat wave.

He waits until Sam is obviously occupied with something on his laptop, then interrupts him again. "I still don't see you in an all-fired hurry to get out there and do something useful. _Samantha_," he adds with a sneer. It's never failed to get Sam all riled up. Should provide at least thirty minutes of decent entertainment.

Sam shuts the laptop with a snap, and shoves his chair back until it hits the motel wall with a sound like a whip-crack. "That's _it_, Dean."

"Oh, what are you going to do? Spank me?" Dean mocks. "Oh no! Please don't!"

"No, I've another idea in mind. You don't want to go out and take the edge off? Fine, there's another way. We'll call it 'Room Service'," Sam says grimly, obviously determined to do whatever it is he plans to do, despite the trails of sweat running down his face and the dark patches under his armpits.

Or rather, the dark patches that _were_ under his armpits, because that's when Sam pulls off his tee-shirt. Dean's almost fascinated by the sight of Sam naked to the waist. All those muscles, gleaming under a sheen of sweat…then Dean remembers this is his _brother_ whose torso he's admiring, and he jerks his gaze away and out the window. "What, you're going to stroll up and down the road out front with your shirt off and your thumb out, and proposition the first chick that drives by? Make sure you get me a blonde, I'm in the mood for one," Dean quips.

But what Sam does instead is walk over and kneel down in front of Dean, folding those freakishly long legs underneath himself. Grim determination still on his face, Sam reaches for Dean's fly.

Dean's mouth drops open as he bats Sam's hand away. "What the _fuck_, Sammy? Have you lost your _mind_? That's it, from now on your limit is two beers."

"You got another suggestion, _Dean-O_? You won't go out, you don't want to stay in, there's nothing to hunt and we've got a few hours to kill before it gets dark and cool enough to sleep. We don't have enough money to go to the bar and drink, 'cause we spent it all already, and you're so lethargic you couldn't hustle pool if you wanted to."

"So _what_, then? You're going to blow me? Nothing says brotherly love like a blow-job, or so I've heard," Dean retorts, trying not to let on how freaked-out he is.

"Hell, _no_. Even I don't love you that much, bitch," Sam says, starting to smile a bit. He watches Dean carefully from under the overgrown fringe of his bangs. "You'll have to settle for a handjob."

"Dude, that's just sick," Dean says. Sam's got to be joking, Dean decides. Trying to ignore the fact that his cock is starting to actually get interested. Fuck, no. He's _not_ doing this with his brother.

"What's so wrong about it, Dean? We're both of legal age, both adults. It's not like I can get you pregnant. That's the main reason for the incest taboo in most cultures, anyways."

"You and your highbrow education," Dean mutters. "The answer's still _no_, by the way."

"OK, fine. Then you shut up and let me answer my emails," Sam says, getting up and walking back to sit in front of his laptop again. He moves so quickly, Dean doesn't have a chance to see whether Sam might also be sporting a bit of wood.

"And people think _I'm_ the slut," Dean mutters, trying to distance himself from his arousal over Sam's proposition.

"You _are_," Sam retorts, booting up his laptop again.

"Bitch."

"Prick."

But the seed's been planted. Sam's right, Dean realizes, it's not like either of them are going to give birth to a hideous alien baby, especially not from letting Sam jerk him off.

And it's true, Dean _is_ a bit of a slut. He prefers women, yes, but he's visited a gay bar a time or two when the mood struck. He didn't think Sammy knew about that, but maybe he does.

Certainly, this'll be more convenient than having to go out and get himself a partner. And that's always a risky proposition anyways. The irony is, killing evil can sometimes be much _much_ easier than convincing a girl to have a quick roll in the hay with you.

Besides, Dean's going to crawl right out of his skin soon, if he doesn't get a distraction and a release from tension. If he starts taunting Sam again, Sammy might just get up and kick his ass. And Dean's feeling way too lethargic to want to trade blows with his little brother right now.

"OK, you win," Dean says, unzipping himself. Once he decides on a course of action, he likes to jump right in. So to speak. "How did you want to do this?"

Sam gets up, looking grimly determined again. Not exactly sexy, Dean thinks. But then again, this isn't about that. It's about releasing tension. Taking the edge off. He doesn't want to start drooling all over his little brother. That would be…

Lame.

"Get on the bed," Sam orders.

Whatever. Dean can get Sam back later for trying to order him around.

Dean gets on the creaky motel room bed, lying flat on his back.

Sam walks over until he's looming over Dean. "Close your eyes."

"What?" argues Dean. "_Right_. I close my eyes, and you push a handful of ice into my crotch? Not gonna happen, Sammy."

"Just trust me, OK? I think we'll both feel more comfortable this way."

Dean can't argue with that. Well, if Sammy tries anything, tries to pull any lame pranks, Dean'll just have to get him back later. He still owes him for gluing his hand to that beer bottle back in Bumfuck, Wherever. Asshole.

He closes his eyes. "Better take your shirt off," Sam advises him, voice floating down from above the bed. "You're already overheated as it is."

"Whatever," Dean says, wriggling out of it and tossing it blindly towards Sam's position, trying to hit him in the head with it. Just to show that Dean's still in charge here. He hears the impact, and smiles smugly as he folds his hands under his head and waits.

"Prick," Sam says crossly.

"Yeah, yeah. Get on with it, willya?"

There's no prelude, no foreplay, no caressing. But Dean doesn't want that anyways. Again, this isn't really about _sex_. So he doesn't complain when long-fingered hands jerk his jeans and briefs to his knees and get then get right down to it.

Sam's got himself some good technique, Dean'll give him that. Hot, sweaty fingers cradle him, stroking him up and down, squeezing and rubbing.

Except, sweaty skin sticks very well to sweaty skin, and when Sam speeds up the strokes a bit, Dean starts to get uncomfortable. "Hey dude, if you want to put it into high gear, use some lube first, willya? I'd like to walk out of here with most of the skin on my dick still intact, if it's all the same to you?"

The hand on his cock stills. "Sorry," Sam says apologetically. Dean doesn't need to open his eyes to see Sam's familiar vaguely-worried expression. "Do we even _have_ any-?"

"Top drawer over there," Dean says, eyes still closed as he gestures in the direction of the shabby chest of drawers in the corner of the room. "Never leave home without it," he quips.

"Uh-huh," Sam answers, clearly rolling his eyes again. Dean doesn't need to see it, to know it's happening.

Dean listens to the noises Sam makes, getting up and crossing the room on his little mission.

Sam returns soon enough, smearing what feels like a generous dollop all around Dean's aching dick. Normally he'd complain about how cold the lube feels, but it actually feels kinda nice, given the current heat wave situation.

"OK?" Sam asks, wrapping his big hand around Dean and pumping experimentally a few times.

"Hell yeah," Dean says, sighing and starting to hunch his hips in time with Sam's motions.

When it happens, it happens _quick_. One second, Sam's hand is jerking up and down Dean's trouser snake at record speed, and the next second, Dean's painting his own chest and belly with long streaks of come.

Dean barely notices when Sam's hand disappears. He's too busy enjoying the sensation of heaviness in his limbs, the feeling of relaxation in the core of his muscles.

When Dean feels a cold, wet washcloth slap into his upper chest, though, he jerks up, opening his eyes and glaring at his brother. "Asshole."

"Candy-ass," Sam returns, giving him the finger and going to sit in front of his laptop again. "Clean yourself up, man. That whole spooge thing on your chest? It's not a good look for you."

Normally Dean would fire back another round of insults, but he's feeling too lazy – and yes, just a teeny smidge _grateful_ – to care. He just cleans himself off with lazy motions.

"So," he finally says, pegging the washcloth into Sam's lap from across the room, "-Yeah, two points!- when do you want me to return the favour?"

Dean wakes up with a start. It's dark and way too hot in here. He hears snoring off to his left, and when he looks over, there's Sam in the other bed, dead to the world.

Thank God, it was just a dream. His brother didn't actually jerk him off, Dean just _dreamed_ that he did.

Still, Dean makes two mental notes.

The first is to stay far, far away from any shrinks, because that dream would give them _shitloads_ of material to analyze.

And the second is that, first thing in the morning, he's going to go out and get laid. _Fast._

Just not by Sam.


End file.
